Taifas Literary Magazine No. 7, January, 2021

3 authors ... p. 2
editorial ... p. 3
poetry ... p. 10
prose ... p. 26
essay ... p. 31
confabulation ... p. 34
2 authors ... p. 49

2
Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7, January, 2021
ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198 TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE
coperta2 2 authors
Sameer Goel
poem..
some unfortunates
howsoever deep
roots of their love may be
never get it back in reciprocation..
.
the way they love
beyond scales and parameters
fail miserably as not
everyone deserves their love..
.
their end, never so happy
a trauma, they always go
through
succumb to the hurts,
they never deserved ever.
Vildana Staniscic
A song of peace
Peace is love,
peace is above all,
when birds fly in the open sky.
Peace has no alternative,
peace is a smiling child.
Always be in harmony with everyone,
whenever you can
help the needy.
May peace reign in your soul,
may the whole universe be blessed.
Tanu Vermai Kapoor
Reminiscent
Moments that were ours…never elapsed
Dangling in oblivion, few sprigs of ‘us’ they
grasped
Arduously seeking an excuse for existence
Clinging to every shred of persistence
Forever grueling to furnish an abyss
Created by a worldly absence
Mind and heart in incessant rift
Rigid to move on…excepting the drift
Heart sensed a bit, you
aren’t around
Still fuzzily perceives
your presence surround
In each and every breath I
count
In stars and floating Moon
that daunt
In every bit of me I flaunt
In everything we
shared…now haunt
Emotional crisis makes
me gaunt
I fail to keep your thoughts at bay
Time enveloped us yet, we found each other
though, we went a long way
Autumn, winter, summer, spring…brewed
grief and dismay
Seasons altered not my heart, I wish my love
to stay!!

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 7,January, 2021
year I, no. 7, 2021, January ISSN 2458-0198 – ISSN-L 2458-0198
editorial 3-4
Paul Rotaru
Et poesis quo?
Motto: Poezia începe din titlu și nu
se sfârșește niciodată.
Balzac, un veritabil vizionar al intențiilor
umane fără ca el însuși să pretindă asta de la
sine, izbutește să construiască, în romanul
Iluzii pierdute, o strălucită parabolă a
destinului poeziei. Și face asta cu ușurința
conferită de convingerea faptului comun, a
ochiului care nu vede
excepționalitate și care nu
manifestă vexare în
proximitatea acestui
destin. Iar parabola sa
rezidă în tocmai antiteza a
două entități: Lucien
Chardon, un maestru al
cuvântului, poet prin
tehnică și spontaneitate,
care se compromite în
mod caraghios în inima
unei societăți decadente
și cumnatul său, David Séchard, poet prin
simțire și existență, însă lipsit de talentul
nativ, spirit pitoresc, de o bonomie soră cu
naivitatea. Balzac nu propune o analiză a unor
arhetipuri umane plauzibile, ci le ia, pur și
simplu, din modernitatea contemporană și le
aduce înaintea noastră dezavuându-le
identitățile de orice artificiu – și, de ce nu am
crede-o, lumea acelor vremuri avea multe de
oferit în sensul ăsta! La fel ca azi și ca
întotdeauna, de când Homo Sapiens se erijează
în ceea ce pretinde a fi.
Dacă, pentru unii cititori, apare drept un
paradox faptul că, într-un editorial despre
poezie, aducem în primul paragraf numele lui
Balzac, acest exponent al prozei moderne, tot
aceștia ne vor îngădui și o mică detaliere. Mulți
dintre marii prozatori ai literaturii universale
au debutat cu încercări poetice, versul fiind
considerat un apanaj al tinereții, ca ulterior să-
și afle vocația propriului lirism în
monumentale opere în proză. Un exemplu pe
placul inimii autorului acestor rânduri este
însuși Caragiale care, într-un moment de
precară inspirație, credem noi, ironiza poezia
chiar în fața celui mai bun prieten al său,
nimeni altul decât Eminescu. Dacă veți citi
versurile lui Caragiale, veți înțelege lesne
punctul nostru de vedere.
Așadar, Poezia
încotro? Asemenea unui
cleric care, întrebat fiind
unde este Dumnezeu în
vremuri de restriște
mondială, vom da același
răspuns: acolo unde a fost
dintotdeauna. Sigur,
redundanța ce reiese din
această sentință aparent
evazivă, suscită oarece
frustrări în chestiunea
poetică, de aceea vom
apela, mai departe, la dispoziția cititorului,
asigurându-l de preocuparea noastră, dacă nu
deplină, cel puțin satisfăcătoare asupra
lirismului în sine. Căci Poesis nu înseamnă
doar versificare! Versuri se scriau și la Moulin
Rouge, ba chiar se savurau cu enormă
larghețe. Poesis rezidă oriunde se identifică în
etos, în tradiție, luându-și eponimul după
continentul spiritual al simțitorului. Și iată, cu
toate acestea, se scriu multe versuri, fără ca ele
să fie poezie, fără să conțină miezul substanței
lirice, fără să emane nici măcar cel mai firav
fior de viață – iar asta este o consecință a fricii
de prozodie, a tendinței de aliniere la uzanțe
propuse și impuse de... niște non-poeți!
De partea cealaltă, se află timizii,

4
indecișii, adică aceia care caută cu orice preț să
se ralieze unor standarde pe care nici nu le
înțeleg, nici nu le vor agrea vreodată. Abia
dacă poți spera să scrii poezie în pentametru
iambic doar pentru că cineva spune că acest
tip de vers aparține literaturii engleze! Abia
dacă vrei să construiești amfibrahi și anapești
doar pentru că altcineva, înaintea ta, a făcut-o
– și încă cu ce măiestrie! Dragii mei, luați-l pe
Eminescu! El abundă de pentametri iambici
(Ai noștri tineri), de amfibrahi (Mortua est!) și
s-a aventurat în jocul de prozodii până într-
acolo încât s-a întors la versul popular ca să ne
ofere Luceafărul. El a scris Epigonii, apoi
Memento mori și, mai
târziu, Scrisorile urmând
o prozodie ușor de regăsit
la pașoptiști precum Ion
Heliade Rădulescu
(Sburătorul) sau Grigore
Alexandrescu (Umbra lui
Mircea. La Cozia), dar nu
numai acolo, ci în chiar
literatura clasicilor latini
precum Vergiliu, Horațiu,
Juvenal și Ovidiu! Cum să
crezi că scrii poezie de
vreme ce te ferești de așa-zisele șabloane? Ai
întâlnit pentametrul trohaic al lui Esenin (Toți
vom fi acolo, poți să sameni/Viața ta cu râs și cu
tumult!/Pentru asta trag mereu spre
oameni/Și-i iubesc pe toți atât de mult.//Pentru
asta inima mi-e moartă/Când privesc al anilor
prăpăd./Vechea casă cu-n dulău la
poartă/Parcă simt că n-am s-o mai revăd) și ai
descoperit că, la vreo optzeci de ani după
moartea lui, ai scris ceva în aceeași prozodie și
te suspectezi singur de plagiat? Păi, dacă te uiți
după fiecare nor, nu mai pleci niciodată la
drum!
Lasciateʼogni speranza, voi chʼintrate (tot
pentametru iambic, la care se adaugă un
contraiamb sublimat în ultima silabă a
versului, efect al perplexității)! Încă ceva: de la
Baudelaire încoace, s-a trezit un deștept să
spună că Florile răului au dat naștere poeziei
moderne. Apăi, dacă însuși Baudelaire ar fi
auzit inepția asta, i-ar fi dat ipocritului cu
cartea peste ochi! Sau, ceva mai delicat, l-ar fi
orientat către Candidul lui Voltaire și
numeroasele versiuni ale nașterii lui Tamuz
pentru a vedea mostre de literatură modernă!
Dar când a fost vreodată ceva modern în
jalnica istorie a lui Homo Sapiens? Oare Dante
Aligheri ar mai fi scris Divina Comedie dacă ar
fi crezut că modernitatea omenirii se va
instaura abia după Baudelaire? Oare ar mai fi
visat el la o întâlnire cu
Vergiliu în Infern și cu
Beatrix în Paradis dacă
modernismul,
postmodernismul și
neomodernismul nu
aveau, încă, degete să bată
la porțile lumii? Cum a
putut Ovidiu cel trist să se
metamorfozeze într-un
ținut al geților care
râdeau în batjocură de
graiul lui latin?
Modernitate?! Nu, domnii mei! Lirică. Scumpa
și oropsita lirică! Modernitatea e dejecția unei
gândiri eterogene care, sub aparența
liberalismului, invită spiritul să își suprime
individualitatea prin acces la porțile facile ale
falselor democrații. Prin estompare, spiritul
nu mai iese din mulțime, ci se autogenerează
în standardul unui infinit de oglinzi, incapabil
să discearnă sinele de ceilalți și mulțimea de
diversitate.
Punctul just al sentimentului nu are nicio
relevanță în raport cu șabloanele propuse de
falsele libertăți! În teoria contagioasă a
„modernismului“ (a se citi
„pseudomodernism“!), valențele converg
către același perimetru eterogen, în care

5
gândirile tipizate vehiculează nonsensuri cu
valoare axiomatică, în care libertatea se
rezumă la tiparul unei realități construite prin
ingerința unor precepte aduse cu roaba
înaintea gurii. Deci, ce modernism și de unde?
Din Comuna Primitivă?! Din marmura
Senatului Roman?! Din flamura înstelată a
Europei?! Ori din degetul mic al lui Lincoln cel
așezat pe tron?! Și, ca să dăm credit (cu aceeași
plăcere!) lui Eminescu, teoriile astea „supte
din deget“ înseamnă modernism?! Cine nu
înțelege că poezia este modernă în eternitatea
ei, că ea rezidă dintotdeauna în arealul
suprastructurat al gândirii și esteticii, ei bine,
aceia sunt dedați (fie-ne
iertată expresia) la
prostituție literară. Când
sufletul ajunge la
supraplin de angoase, fie
cade doborât, fie își
desprinde aripile și
izbucnește din crupa
convenționalului. Noi
singuri ne creăm ziduri
împrejur și tot singuri
vom fi în corvoada de a le
dărâma. În definitiv,
spiritele noastre gemene se află dincolo de
acele baricade și nu ni se vor alătura decât
atunci când vom fi gata să le primim. Astfel,
lumea asta plină de simulări precare nu va mai
fi străină de ea însăși, căci este un dat al firii să
cunoaștem Purgatoriul înaintea Paradisului.
Freamătul spiritului condensat în
splendorile esteticii cristalizează năzuințele
rațiunii, iar expresia poetică înalță făptura
umană în sfera eterică fără să riște a-i mânia
pe zeii artelor. Doar că desprinderea de cauzal
necesită o exaltare a referențialului critic în
progresie geometrică prin cultivarea intensă a
acestui spirit. Desigur, nu trebuie să
confundăm această întreprindere cu
devalorizarea factorului substanță, materie,
căci asta ar conduce la schilodirea spiritului
privându-l de motorul care generează
contemplarea. Materia, odată trecută prin
caleidoscopul perspectivei estetice, se
abstractizează, devine idee și, deci, intră în
starea eterală, iar concretul rămâne extensia
fixă a unui simbol. De așa manieră se comportă
poezia, acest narcotic ce domolește sevrajele
cotidianului, stârnește frenezii erotice prin
transpunerea eului în voluptosul relief al
planetei Venus și descătușează cugetul de
rigiditatea rațiunii prin animarea pulsiunilor
lirice.
„Arzătoarea voință de creație mă aduce
mereu la om, în același fel
în care ciocanul este
mânat spre piatră“ – scria
Nietzsche cu privire la
monumentala sa operă
„Așa grăit-a Zarathustra“.
Nu cred că există în
literatura universală o
sintetizare mai iscusită a
menirii creatorului,
întrucât ea combate
teoria formelor în scopul
eliberării fondului. Și ce
altceva este poezia dacă nu o manifestare a
fondului pur, originar, dezavuat de restricțiile
pe care le îmbracă în mod amăgitor
convenționalul? A crede că poezia oglindește
fidel structura interioară, adică fondul
creatorului, este, uneori, o deplorabilă
amăgire. Cu toate acestea, cititorul resimte
aleanul atavic de reîntregire ce rezidă în
sevele versului. De aceea, pentru ca o poezie să
își asigure eternizarea, autorul necesită să
atingă numeroase deziderate din care vom
aminti verosimilitatea și bogăția
vocabularului propriu. Scopul oricărei creații
lirice verosimile este, de cele mai multe ori,
reflexiv-subiectiv, dar asta nu o împiedică, așa
cum tradiția literară ne-o arată, să oglindească

6
simțăminte comune, dovedindu-și, astfel,
mobilul tranzitiv. Poate că și de aceea mentalul
colectiv dă credit majoritar prozei, alterând
personalitatea poeziei prin orientare către
proza scurtă, efect al tendinței de satisfacere
imediată a unor nevoi sub generic intelectual.
E drept că ritmul vieții comportă cadențe
imprevizibile, că omul își măsoară rațiunea de
a fi pe scara hazardului și el a realizat că drama
îl apropie sau îl îndepărtează de alți oameni tot
așa cum o face fericirea. Tocmai de aceea
„ciocanul“ lui Nietzsche se apropie de „piatră“
și poezia stă aproape de spirit.
Dacă m-ar fi întrebat cineva ce concluzii
aș trasa la acest editorial,
cândva aș fi fost tentat să
răspund că nu există
concluzii pertinente și
exhaustive în privința
poeziei. Dragii mei, aș
încerca, totuși, un
exercițiu de imaginație și
v-aș invita să vă
abandonați în voia
propriilor firi, să petreceți
într-un dialog intim cu
naturile voastre și să vă
lăsați fascinați de numeroasele necunoscute și
întrebări ce vă vitalizează. Acolo, în leagănul
de fantasme, ați putea găsi un gol pe care
poezia nu promite să îl completeze în vreun
fel, iar, în acel gol, se ascunde o poveste
neterminată. De aceea, puteți îmbrățișa golul,
puteți să plonjați în el, să vă izbiți de valuri și
să le escaladați crestele. Extenuați pe plaja de
iluzii, clipiți măcar o dată pentru a regăsi cerul
care vă umanizează, vă admiră, vă trimite
astrele ca pe cei mai dedicați martori ai poeziei
numite OM. Și, dacă nici atunci nu ați gustat o
fărâmă de eternitate, povestea poeziei voastre
rămâne departe de a se fi încheiat.
Et poesis quo?
Motto: Poetry begins with the title
and never ends.
Balzac, a true visionary of human
intentions without himself claiming this,
manages to build, in the novel Lost Illusions, a
brilliant parable of the destiny of poetry. And
he does this with the ease conferred by the
conviction of the common fact, of the eye that
does not see exceptionality and that does not
show vexation in the proximity of this destiny.
And his parable lies in the
exact antithesis of two
entities: Lucien Chardon,
a master of the word, a
poet by technique and
spontaneity, who jokingly
compromises himself in
the heart of a decadent
society and his brother-
in-law, David Séchard, a
poet by feeling and
existence, but lacking
native talent, picturesque
spirit, with a bonhomie
sister with naivety. Balzac does not propose an
analysis of plausible human archetypes, but
simply takes them from his contemporary
modernity and brings them before us by
denying their identities of any artifice - and,
why not believe it, the world of those times
had many to offer in this sense! As today and
as always, since Homo Sapiens has risen to
what it claims to be.
If, for some readers, it appears as a
paradox that, in an editorial about poetry, we
bring in the first paragraph the name of Balzac,
this exponent of modern prose, they will also
allow us a little detail. Many of the great prose
writers of universal literature began with

7
poetic attempts, the verse being considered a
prerogative of youth, to later find out the
vocation of their own lyricism in monumental
works in prose. An example pleasing to the
heart of the author of these lines is Caragiale
himself, who, in a moment of precarious
inspiration, we believe, ironized the poetry
right in front of his best friend, none other
than Eminescu. If you read Caragiale's lyrics,
you will easily understand our point of view.
So where goes Poetry? Like a clergyman
who, being asked where God is in times of
world hardship, we will give the same answer:
where it has always been. Of course, the
redundancy that emerges
from this seemingly
evasive sentence,
provokes some
frustrations in the poetic
question, so we will
continue to appeal to the
reader, assuring him of
our concern, if not
complete, at least
satisfactory on the
lyricism itself. For Poesis
does not only mean
versification! Lyrics were also written at the
Moulin Rouge, and were even enjoyed with
enormous breadth. Poesis resides wherever it
identifies itself in ethos, in tradition, taking its
eponym after the spiritual continent of the
sentient. And yet, however, many verses are
written, without them being poetry, without
containing the core of the lyrical substance,
without emanating even the faintest thrill of
life - and this is a consequence of the fear of
prosody, of the tendency of alignment with
customs proposed and imposed by... some
non-poets!
On the other hand, there are the timid
ones, the undecided, that is, those who seek at
all costs to meet standards that they neither
understand nor will ever agree with. You can
hardly hope to write poetry in iambic
pentameter just because someone says that
this type of verse belongs to English literature!
You hardly want to build amphibras and
anaphs just because someone else, before you,
did it – and with what skill! My dear ones, take
Eminescu! He abounds in iambic pentameters
(Our young ones), amphibras (Mortua est!)
and ventured into the game of prosody to the
point that he returned to the popular verse to
offer us The Vesper. He wrote the Epigones,
then Memento mori and, later, the Letters
following a prosody easily found in Pasoptists
such as Ion Heliade
Rădulescu (The Flyer) or
Grigore Alexandrescu
(Mircea's Shadow. At
Cozia), but not only there,
but in the literature of the
Latin classics such as
Virgil, Horace, Juvenal
and Ovid! How do you
think you're writing
poetry since you're
avoiding so-called
templates? You met
Esenin's trochaic pentameter and you
discover that, about eighty years after his
death, you wrote something in the same
prosody and suspect yourself of plagiarism?
Well, if you look after every cloud, you never
go on the road again!
Lasciateʼogni speranza, voi chʼintrate
(also iambic pentameter, to which is added a
sublimated counteriamb in the last syllable of
the verse, an effect of perplexity)! One more
thing: from Baudelaire onwards, a smart man
woke up to say that the Flowers of Evil gave
birth to modern poetry. Well, if Baudelaire
himself had heard this nonsense, he would
have hit the hypocrite in the eye! Or, a little
more delicately, he would have turned to

8
Voltaire's Candid and the many versions of
Thamus' birth to see samples of modern
literature! But when was there anything
modern in the pathetic history of Homo
Sapiens? Would Dante Aligheri have written
the Divine Comedy if he had believed that the
modernity of mankind would be established
only after Baudelaire? Would he have
dreamed of a meeting with Virgil in Hell and
Beatrix in Paradise if modernism,
postmodernism, and neomodernism still did
not have fingers knocking at the gates of the
world? How could the sad Ovid
metamorphose into a land of the Getae who
laughed mockingly at his
Latin speech?
Modernity?! No,
gentlemen! Lyric. The
dear and oropsite lyric!
Modernity is the dejection
of a heterogeneous
thought that, under the
guise of liberalism, invites
the spirit to suppress its
individuality through
access to the easy gates of
false democracies. By
blurring itself, the spirit no longer stands out
from the crowd, but self-generates in the
standard of an infinite number of mirrors,
unable to discern the self from others and the
multitude of diversity.
The righteous point of the feeling has no
relevance in relation to the patterns proposed
by the false liberties! In the contagious theory
of "modernism" (read "pseudomodernism"!),
the valences converge to the same
heterogeneous perimeter, in which
standardized thoughts convey nonsense with
axiomatic value, in which freedom is reduced
to the pattern of a reality constructed by the
interference of precepts brought with the
wheelbarrow before the mouth. So what
modernism and where? From the Primitive
Commune?! From the marble of the Romanian
Senate?! From the starry flag of Europe?! Or
from Lincoln's little finger sitting on the
throne?! And, to give credit (with the same
pleasure!) to Eminescu, do these "finger-
sucked" theories mean modernism?! Those
who do not understand that poetry is modern
in its eternity, that it always resides in the
superstructured area of thought and
aesthetics, well, those are devoted (may our
expression be forgiven) to literary
prostitution. When the soul becomes
overflowing with anguish, it either falls down
or spreads its wings and
bursts out of the croup of
the conventional. We
alone create walls around
us and we will be alone in
the chore of tearing them
down. Ultimately, our
twin spirits are beyond
those barricades and will
not join us until we are
ready to receive them.
Thus, this world full of
precarious simulations
will no longer be foreign to itself, for it is a
matter of nature to know Purgatory before
Paradise.
The commotion of the spirit condensed
in the splendors of aesthetics crystallizes the
aspirations of reason, and the poetic
expression elevates the human being in the
etheric sphere without risking angering the
gods of the arts. It's just that causal
detachment requires an exaltation of the
critical frame of reference in geometric
progression through the intense cultivation of
this spirit. Of course, we must not confuse this
enterprise with the devaluation of the factor
substance, matter, because this would lead to
the crippling of the spirit by depriving it of the

9
engine that generates contemplation. Matter,
once passed through the kaleidoscope of
aesthetic perspective, is abstracted, becomes
an idea and, therefore, enters the etheric state,
and the concrete remains the fixed extension
of a symbol. This is how poetry behaves, this
narcotic that calms the daily weanings,
arouses erotic frenzy by transposing the ego
into the voluptuous upground of the planet
Venus and unleashes the thought of the
rigidity of reason by animating lyrical
pulsions.
"The burning will of creation always
brings me to man, in the same way that the
hammer is driven to the
stone" – wrote Nietzsche
about his monumental
work "Thus spoke
Zarathustra". I do not
think that there is a more
skilful synthesis in the
universal literature of the
creator's purpose, since it
combats the theory of
forms in order to release
the fund. And what else is
poetry if not a
manifestation of the pure, original
background, disavowed by the restrictions
that the conventional deceptively wears? To
believe that poetry faithfully mirrors the inner
structure, that is, the background of the
creator, is sometimes a deplorable deception.
However, the reader feels the atavistic alliance
of reunion that resides in the sap of the verse.
Therefore, in order for a poem to ensure its
perpetuation, the author needs to reach
numerous desideratums from which we will
mention the plausibility and richness of
vocabulary. The purpose of any plausible
lyrical creation is, most of the time, reflexive-
subjective, but this does not prevent it, as the
literary tradition shows us, from mirroring
common feelings, thus proving its transitive
motive. Perhaps that is why the collective
mind gives majority credit to prose, altering
the personality of poetry by focusing on short
prose as an effect of the tendency to
immediately satisfy some needs under
intellectual generic. It is true that the rhythm
of life involves unpredictable cadences, that
man measures his reason of being on the scale
of chance, and he realized that drama brings
him closer or further away from other people
just as happiness does. That is why Nietzsche's
"hammer" approaches the "stone" and poetry
is close to the spirit.
If someone had
asked me what
conclusions I would draw
from this editorial, I
would have once been
tempted to answer that
there are no pertinent
and exhaustive
conclusions about poetry.
My dear ones, I would try,
however, an exercise of
imagination and I would
invite you to abandon
yourselves to your own nature, to spend in an
intimate dialogue with your natures and to be
fascinated by the many unknowns and
questions that vitalize you. There, in a cradle
of fantasies, you might find a void that poetry
does not promise to fill in any way, and in that
void lies an unfinished story. Therefore, you
can embrace the void, you can dive into it, hit
the waves and climb their ridges. Exhausted
on the beach of illusions, blink at least once to
find the sky that humanizes you, admires you,
sends you the stars as the most dedicated
witnesses of poetry called HUMAN. And, even
if you haven't tasted a shred of eternity even
then, the story of your poetry is far from over.

10
poetry 5-24
Gerlinde Staffler
Sleepless mind
Thoughts are wandering in turbulent streams
Many a blinking spot in my brain beams
I can’t catch all these naughty fireflies
They flow through me opening my eyes
Thoughts leave me never alone
They’re present twice like a clone
Roaming my woods in swarm of ideas
In numerous queries,
worries and plans
Thoughts are sprouting
like plants
Or like a range of hills of
ants
My head beats like a
battle drum
Leaving me so as I forget
my name
Thoughts glide through my mind
Thoughts wrench from the heart unkind
They talk to me without strain
Of joy, fear, anger and pain
Unceasing thoughts fall asleep
Then in weird dreams they always creep
And fly with me all the night
But nothing can I do for their might
Adam Żemojtel
Pysznych myśli słowa
rozlałaś słodyczy eliksir na skórze
ciekawskim oczom skleiłaś powieki
ty tylko wiesz na co przy tobie zasłużę
nagość zanurzając do miłosnej rzeki
mgłą tajemnych uczuć przesłaniasz krajobraz
nie pozwalasz myślom mym dociekać prawdy
rozkosz mą wyłaniasz swym ciałem raz po raz
nie czekasz na powrót zasłużonej karmy
wzniecony płomień
szybko się rozrasta
jak miłość wzbudzona do
entej potęgi
wilgoć taka słodka klei się
i mlaska
swym śladem różowe
kreśli dreszczy wstęgi
pocałunkiem dławisz
słów moich potoki
w szczerym mym zachwycie obawiasz się
kłamstwa
w spocone tak włosy wkręcasz swoje loki
pochłaniasz istnienie w nadziei poddaństwa
opóźniasz celowo mej eksplozji chwilę
podsycasz ogień i znów go uciszasz
zabierasz z ust wrzącą od miłości ślinę
w ciemności tajemny powodujesz miraż
dusze chcą ulecieć z naczyń połączonych
krew znów rozżarzona i to do białości
plączą się akordy serc nieposkromionych
rozkosz znów przygasa bynajmniej nie w
złości

11
wreszcie się wyzwala burza z piorunami
nie ma takiej siły by orgazm powstrzymać
rozbłyski się łączą z wielkimi grzmotami
wzburzonej rozkoszy nie da się zatrzymać
zastygają chłodem miłosne potoki
serc obu symfonia spokojem przycicha
kwiaty umęczone spijają swe soki
miłość znów gorąca spływa do kielicha
Bhagirath Choudhary
Human Poverty
Do I need
Any religion
To keep
A kind eye
And loving vision ?
Do I need
Any big talks
To think
Universally benevolent
Kind thoughts ?
Do I need
Fine linguistics
To speak
Kind and caring words
Without selfish tricks ?
Do I need
Any philosophy
To treat
One and all
With empathy ?
Do I need
Any education
To love all
With humanistic passion
And loving
Unconditional compassion ?
Do I need
Any mysticism
Of a great Shaman
To be good human
With loving humanism ?
I have already
All what I need
For benevolent
Thought, word and deed
I have already
All the potential
And humanistic worth
To create heaven
Here upon earth
But I behave
Like a frog in a well
Every moment
I create a sinful hell
With my sadistic creed
Of evil thought,
With cunning word
And selfish deed.

12
Adam Decowski
Wędrówka
[Journey]
nad moim
a może i nad twoim snem
ten sam lęk
drąży labirynty cieni
które zatrzasną się szczelnie
gdy zostaniemy odcięci na zawsze
od światła
któregoś dnia
przystajemy nagle w tym
pośpiesznym marszu
oglądamy się
wołamy
nie ma jednego z nas
jeszcze słyszymy gasnące
kroki
chwytamy w dłonie
popiół jego słów
i nie możemy uwierzyć
że nie poda nam ręki
nie ogrzeje
klamki naszego domu
i nie potrafimy wypełnić
blizny powietrza
po nim
a nasza wędrówka nadal trwa
jej dni
słońca wahadło odmierza
aż kiedyś nieruchome
zawęźli nasz czas
i opadający liść serca
ostatnim uderzeniem
w ciemność ziemi
zapuka
Prince Steve Oyebode
The power of love
We thought it was but a mere oath
When we both sworn an allegiance
That nothing shall in anyway separate us
Not even the ugly moments of
ill health
Or the dangerous time of austerity
Even period of unanswered prayers
We never knew we were both wrong
When our emotions overwhelmed us
Now that the ugly visitor
of death beckons at me
Whispering to me about
my very last moment
To separate and do us
part till eternity
My consolation is that you
shall outlive me
Even now that I believed
you have the liberty
I mean the freedom to
choose another man
The more I realize I’m fast leaving this world
Surprisingly, the clearer I see we’re both
leaving
This undemystified magnet has glued us
Right from the hour we made the promise
That wherever I go thou shall also go
That my people shall be yours and vice versa
That my life shall always be your life
And that your death shall also be mine
Now I know the nitty gritty of oath
That we both made under the mango tree

13
Selma Kopic
Waiting for midnight
It wasn't a night like any other,
it was a night of hope for better days.
In the circle of family and friends
or alone in their homes,
everyone could hardly wait
for the year that was so bad to pass.
Sparks of fireworks shone over the city
when I heard your voice.
You sing about longing for your darling
as you drive on the
deserted icy roads
of the north!
You call her to come
and run her hand through
your hair.
Tears burn in my eyes like
needles.
Am I that darling you call
with verses?
The lost hope warms my
heart
whichbeginstobeatmadly,
then hurts as if it will stop.
This night brought joy to many,
I know those to whom it caused sorrow
because accidents happen
even on the most beautiful occasions.
It brought me you and your love song
aboutadistantdarlingyoucallintoanembrace.
I feel every word,
they tap on my wounded heart like a sword.
But I love that pain,
it makes me feel alive again.
“I am the one he longs for’’, I whispered
silently
as I sank into a sweet sleep, quietly.
Čekajući ponoć
To nije bila noć kao sve druge,
bila je to noć nade u bolje dane.
U krugu porodice i prijatelja
ili usamljenički u svojim kućama,
svi su jedva čekali
da prođe godina koja je bila tako loša.
Nad gradom su svijetlile iskre vatrometa
kad sam čula tvoj glas.
Pjevaš o čežnji za svojom dragom
dok voziš se pustim
zaleđenim cestama
sjevera.
Zoveš je da dođe i rukom
ti kroz kosu prođe.
Zapekoše suze u mojim
očima kao iglice.
Jesam li ja ta draga koju
stihovima zoveš?
Izgubljena nada zagrija
moje srce
koje ludo poče da kuca,
zatim zaboli kao da će
stat.
Ova noć donijela je mnogima radost,
znam i one kojima je prouzročila tugu
jer nesreće se događaju i u najljepšim
prigodama.
Meni je donijela tebe i tvoju ljubavnu pjesmu
o dalekoj dragoj koju zoveš u zagrljaj.
Osjećam svaku riječ,
one tapkaju po mom ranjenom srcu kao mač.
Ali ja taj bol volim,
čini da se ponovo živom osjetim.
„Ja sam ta za kojom čezne’’, nijemo sam
šaputala
dok sam tiho u slatki san tonula.

14
Shaswata Gangopadhyay
Two Poems
Circus
Now this time a tent is pitched, wet grass at the
southern field
Hand-clapping of clowns, hair-raising shifting
movement
Of trapeze tricks in darkness, we sit spell-
bound
There're scantily dressed girls standing on the
hunches of camels
And keeping the balance,
reminds us that world is
globular
Three white cockatoos go
away riding on cycles
But as soon as they
depart, the interval bell
rings
After the recess comes a
funny magician in
overcoat
Ah! how he swallowed up a good number of
multi-colored fish
The scene changes in an instant, there's
throbbing in the heart,
The bike rotates round in the enclosure at a
break-neck speed
If it slips from the orbit, will there be any fiery
explosion?
There's an announcement in the mike: tighten
up your seat-belt
The last item in the breathless arena, the
intercourses of tigers
Emergency
Under some manholes of streets in Kolkata, a
few adolescent girls,
as innocent as cherry flowers, are kept
confined. At midnight my sleep
fades away suddenly and I listen to the wailing
groans they make being
suffocated. As if from all sides the river-banks
are slipping away over the
flood-water with flashing sounds. A day will
come when I won't meet anyone,
known to me earlier. Only we will exchange
handshakes among us
through
hand gloves only, one
after the other. One day,
all the words will desert
me,
leaving me all alone.
Perhaps a line or two in
poetry, in spite of their
trying
to reach very near to each
other, will not find a
parking-space in the clumsy
jottings of my diary.
Translated by: Rajdeep Mukherjee
Shaswata Gangopadhyay
One of Prominent faces of contemporary Bengali
poetry, who started writing in the mid 90s. Born &
brought up in Kolkata, Shaswata has profound interest
in travelling, adventure and classical music.
His poetry has been highly appreciated among
other fellow poets for its colorful and rich content.
His book of poems: Inhabitant of Pluto Planet
(2001) Offspring of Monster (2009) and Holes of Red
Crabs (2015). Very recently one of his poems has been
exhibited in a Short Poetry Festival in Piccolo Museo
della Poesia, Italy – the only Poetry Museum of the
world.

15
SIR SILVANO BORTOLAZZI
"Sono"
Detesto le lotterie, poiché non amo vincere:
non potrei rinunciare al mio piccolo mondo
d'amorevoli sogni.
Non cerco il potere, poiché non voglio
sottomettere:
è inconcepibile comandare ed intimorire i
giusti.
Voglio essere, non voglio avere:
per non detestarmi,
per essere libero da me
stesso e dagli altri:
per essere rispettato
come uomo.
Prendo la mia croce di
povertà,
accetto le umiliazioni
degli arricchiti
che un tempo mi furono
fratelli:
li ringrazio per la loro
stupida indifferenza.
Vivo nel silenzio della preghiera,
nel mio esilio di poeta richiuso tra quattro
mura.
Parlo con Dio:
perdono tutti.
Desiderare non è un mio concetto
ma colgo i piaceri della vita:
possono condurmi verso la comprensione
degli estremi limiti della saggezza.
Io Sono,
tutto quello che tutti vogliono avere
credendo d'essere.
"I'm"
I hate lotteries, as I don't like winning:
I couldn't give up my little world of loving
dreams.
I don't seek power, as I don't want to subdue:
it is inconceivable to command and intimidate
the righteous.
I want to be, I don't want to have:
so as not to hate me,
to be free from myself
and others:
to be respected as a man.
I take my cross of
poverty,
I accept the humiliations
of the enriched
who were once brothers
to me:
I thank them for their
stupid indifference.
I live in the silence of
prayer,
in my exile as a poet enclosed within four
walls.
I speak to God:
they all lose.
Desiring is not my concept
but I take the pleasures of life:
they can lead me to understanding
of the extreme limits of wisdom.
I am,
everything everyone wants to have
believing to be.

16
Janamenjoy Ghorai
„”Grammar of Life”
Blazing in conflict with the rhythm of the
current of life
In the triad bed of prepositional prepositions
Again the vowel rises and sets
I walked the path of wonder for no reason
The grammar of life,
Maybe in the cosmic beauty of the colorless
alphabet lifestyle at the touch of a coyote
Adjective adjectives come selectively
Where there is a juncture of life,
Floating caught the magic world
Beautiful metallic form of
sound
Repeatedly in the
innumerable
complications of the
smooth mouth
The grammar of life at the
end of the full taste of the
verb sampika
Happiness ends in the
silence of sorrow
Comma maybe wonderful
silent beard,
Rather it leaves the white-
black burning house of life grammar side by
side.
Ruki Kočan
Evo svjetlosti
Ljubavi, Iskro Života.
Probudi Svijet Mira.
Neka ode zlo, i mržnja.
Mrak, užas i zabluda.
Evo, evo svima Svjetlosti.
Idi, - ma brišite gluposti.
Pohlepa i bolest,
haos - ljubomora i trač.
Idi - idi nepismena smrti.
Evo sreće, i Ljubavi...
Evo, evo - Svjetlosti.
Naba Kumar Podder
A Tale of Coloured Pent
(Translator -Shikdar Mohammed kibriah)
At the end nobody has to be detached
Nobody is only beloved as the colour
Of monochord
This tattoo time is strange too!
Is everything written in
script?
Can everything rush to
the utmost
Of piano---
Violin and pipe are not
similar
Yet in a word they are
artistic
They are fragrant Antiseptic.
Enemy doesn't test who is real
Or who is fake in the war.
What's need to react from the out?
Come to a fuss-
Pour some romance in this
Bay of Bengal.

17
Ramesh Chandra Pradhani
Something remained untold
Far away from the world of love being highly
immature
Couldn't perceive your body language due to
childish nature
Couldn't really comprehend you, that alluring
smile
You were not remaining aloof from me even
a while
Your posture seemed me the sparkling angel
of heaven so merry
Your gait in front of me
assumed the dance of
celestial fairies
Your presence in the
bathing ghats as if
coincidental
Thy appearance again
and again beyond my
imagination oriental
Sitting like a child in the
group before me stole my
attraction
But never did I bother or take to my mind's
calculation
Your eyes gazing at me haunted sometimes I felt
The hidden desire inside you nearing me seen
myself melt
In the wee hours often your body dashed
against me
Myself ashamed of it and strived to keep me
distant
The rapport between you and me made me
ignorant
Days after days passed away leaving
something untold
That puzzled, disturbed, suffered and deferred
me bold.
Often I guessed how you created opportunity
to meet me
Fear and shameness battled my mind being
gloomy.
Dared not to talk to you in inevitable fright
Dare not to touch you though chance to invite
The day when I came to know you fell in love
It was high time to taste the fruits of joyous
love.
I wish the day would come back with a last
chance
Had not at all lost that joy of divine romance.
Jigme Jamtsho
Windows of
winter
Gazing warm rays of
beautiful sun
Touches my cheek
through the window
Amid to the drowsy
morning without fun
Listening to Robin from
the far meadow
Resting on the soft and clumsy pillow
Vapours from the coffee cup waving hi
My half opened eyes gazed from below
And the sip of coffee refresh me to glorify
Activeness pushed me outside to refresh
Feeling the chill sensation of the breeze
And soothing scent of nature that bless
The winter numb me speechless to freeze
Through the windows of winter season
I can see the mountains fully with snow
Even the streams flowing with the reason
Every second of life matters as we know

18
AD Ibrahim
My nubian princess
How tan is she!
kissed by warmth
of the sun's rays
skin dripping melanin
Her hips invites you
Her kinky hair a golden
crown of mother earth
Her skin tone a badge of honor
Her lips sweeter than red
wine
Her obsidian skin
softer than fur
a beam to African
Kings and heroes
A microcosm of the
universe
hips swaying in self love
as I dance to the afro
drum of life
Milka J.Šolaja
Bljesak bjeline
Da li to pada snijeg
ili pahulje lete,
u očima bljesak
bjeline.
Sivilo nestade u trenu,
jecaj me prenu...
Djetinjstvo me probudi
na Ličkom putu
u starom kaputu,
kroz snijeg gazim
sretna.
Timothy Michael DiVito
"A One Way Train"
It's time to leave now,
the train departs shortly.
Westward dream bound
into an unknown world,
across the desert of time.
Just sweet memories now,
a love once shared happily.
Now abruptly shattered
like glass of the human
soul,
all aboard the train of life.
I gave to you my one
heart,
now I travel the world
alone
on an optimistic train
track,
leading me to new memories,
visions of madness forgotten.
Tracks leading to new dreams
far down the line of existence,
to unknown opportune towns.
But a true adventure of life
leading to brighter horizons.

19
Velimir Siljanoski
Početak!
Početak našeg stradanja
polako se svima otkriva
mi sigurno gubimo bitku
još nije kasno da tražimo priliku
Posle toliko godina
mi smo naraštaj koji plaća cenu
sve što se danas dešava u svetu
postoji način opet naći se na svetlu
Neko je zbog nas život dao
kako bi nas od greha
okupao
dao nam je i odeću čistu
a mi bez časti izgubismo
bitku
Još nije kasno braćo i
sestre
da se pokajemo svi za
svoje grehe
nastavimo tamo gde su
pre nas stali
molimo se milostivom Bogu da se sažali
Da nam opet u pomoć dođe
donese pobedu i da slobode
jer sami smo slabi i grešimo
jedni druge mi ne znamo da utešimo
Vrati se silo nebeska jaka
oteraj ovaj strah iz stomaka
vrati životu veru i blagostanje
u svima nama postoji u Gospoda verovanje
Cilenti Emanuele
The poet of the clouds.
I wrote you
this love letter
I didn't use the usual words
I made a miracle
on the blue sheet of infinity
splashing magic ink
made of clouds
and I composed
this tender lyric
a pure white writing
that tastes like rain
but also of snow,
a poet in the clouds
just to reveal
to the whole world
my eternal and celestial
love for you.
Dijana Uherek
Stevanović,
Pervasion
In the treetops,
I hid the sun,
to remind me of you.
Do not worry,
I'll set him free
for I would not hold you captive either.
My thoughts are free,
like this passing day,
like the year 2020 that is disappearing,
as well as the life that passes.
Look at us,
we are like day and night,
we are entangled in time.
We are the sun, the source of life.

20
Mahanaj Parvin
Title name: "Love Stars"
That night knows, that star knows,
The sky knows, the moon knows,
How I love you!
Today my heart dances like a peacock!
I have written your name on each star.
Honeymoon will be in the light of the stars!
The stars in the sky cannot be finished,
My love can't end
I will fill you with romantic stories.
Rupoli moon is smiling,
The star is shining
brightly,
I just love you!
Grasshoppers and
butterflies are playing at
the tip of my eyes!
The garden of the mind
smells of fragrant
flowers!
I will decorate you with
the seven colors of the
rainbow!
I will talk to those twinkling stars in the sky-
Love only you!
Lenuș Lungu
Watch the sun go down in the
night cup
this is how loneliness descends in my soul…
your steps, vain hopes bound in a chain,
where in the course of time a secret clings
behind your words
there are two lips that give life
the muffled mixture between the rows.
put your hands next to you
to be able to include them
Remember me
Clouds are my calling
When he shakes, I stretch out my arms to the
sky and smile at you.
Stefano Capasso
That Wonderful Time will it
ever come back?
Look far beyond
the Horizon
and see nothing,
if not ghosts
chasing each other
. in a mad rush
against time,
it's really sad.
There are shadows
that dissolve
instantly
only to appear,
like snow clouds
while others,
suddenly,
fill the scene
of tender memories
of the past,
when
everything and everything
it was truly wonderful.
But that wanderful time
will it ever come back?
Eyes now tired
makes it clear, that anyway
those already passed
they really stay
extraordinary memories.

21
Adeyemi Kehinde A. Oluwanishola
If i have not told you
If I have not told you
You wouldn't have believed me
Seeing the temperature of your eyes
As it rained snow of anger and bitterness
Icould feel the heavinessof the rain in your eyes
Knowing fully well you yourself don't care to
raise your voice at me
Despite how much I tried to caution and
parcify you
You never listened but crucified my heart
before them all
The dilemma to this
equation was nothing but
a setup
I could hardly look into
your eyes than to gaze my
words
My eyes are soaked of
tears showing the
sobriety of my heart
Yet not a chance to at least
prove myself right
You wouldn't have trusted me
If not that I say whatever will be will surely be
I accepted fate when the clamouring was much
You've forgotten how you triggered my heart
Yet I never picked offense nor judge you for
who you are
I gave you second chance which leads to a
billion times
I'mme!IfonlyyoucouldlistentowhatIhavetosay
Bless God you came back to your senses but
the damage is done
Everyone left with the crumbs of your attitude
displayed
Take no thought because I've forgiven you
Even before now and ever after
This words melt her heart and brought tears
of apologizy
She knelt before him and pleased
He raised her up with smile and love
Embracing each other once again
If I have not told you this neither would you
believe me
Mayokun Kehinde Folorunsho
Unbecoming
And now sleepwalkers in beheaded dreams
We have dreamed with a heart
Unwashed as a madman
Around the bonfire of
ethnic offerings
Blazing in bloody heat
In those forgotten
centuries
Holy blades split
emirates' soul
And what will our myopic
eyes see
When we have tagged our
countrymen with battle
scars
Inscribed by the thirst of emperors
That paced our homeland for many decades?
Down this path flooded with rage
We have been the draughtsman
Of what we wish we were
Which seems the anthem for another age
We have sacrificed Biafra's skulls
Yet born again into recurring waves
We now are a flickering lighthouse
And the victory songs are
The anguish and wailing of sucklings
Brimming the trophies we brought home
From voyages and nameless wars

22
Ion CUZUIOC
S-a născut la 16 septembrie 1949 în
familia intelectualilor Valentina şi Pavel
Cuzuioc din comuna Ţareuca, judeţul Orhei,
Republica Moldova. A absolvit Universitatea
de Stat de Medicină şi Farmacie ,,N.
Testemiţanu”. Eminent al Ocrotirii Sănătăţii.
Medic specialist Sănătatea Publică şi
Managementul Sanitar (categorie superioară).
Distins cu Ordinul ,,Gloria Muncii”și Medalia
„Nicolae Milescu Spătarul”, Titluri Onorifice:
,,Ambasador al Păcii (ONU) și „Ambasador al
Culturii Păcii”(Asociația Europeană a
Societății Civile) ;
Distincţia ,,Coroana
Păcii”(ONU); Premiul
Uniunii Scriitorilor din
Moldova (2000), (2009),
Uniunii Ziariștilor
Profesioniști din România
(2014, 2015, 2016, 2017,
2018, 2019), Premiul
UNESCO şi numeroase
premii şi menţiuni la
Saloane Internaționale de
Carte, Concursuri și
Festivaluri Literare Naţionale şi
Internaţionale.
Cetăţean de Onoare al comunei Ţareuca,
Rezina, Orhei. Membru al Uniunii
Epigramiştilor, Uniunii Scriitorilor și Uniunii
Ziariștilor Profesioniști din România. Membru
al Uniunii Cineaştilor, Uniunii Umoriştilor,
Uniunii Epigramiștilor, Uniunii Jurnaliştilor şi
Uniunii Scriitorilor din Moldova. Membru al
Asociației Naționale a Oamenilor de Creație
din Moldova.
Membru al Senatului Asociației
Oamenilor de Știință, Cultură și Artă din
Moldova. Membru al Confederaţiei
Internaţionale a Cineaştilor, Membru al
Federaţiei Internaţionale a Jurnaliştilor.
Membru al Asociației Canadiene a Scriitorilor
Români. Membru al Academiei Româno-
Australiană. Membru al Academiei Națiunii
Române.
A editat peste 40 de cărţi de epigrame,
aforisme, proză (romane, nuvele, poveşti şi
povestiri pentru copii, schiţe umoristice),
versuri lirice, poeme stil nipon, publicistică. În
toţi aceşti ani publică cronici literare, eseuri,
sfaturi medicale, articole ştiinţifico-populare.
Selecţii din creaţia sa literară au fost incluse în
peste 200 de antologii şi culegeri din România,
Rusia, SUA, Austria, Australia, Franța, Canada,
Coreea de Sud și
Muntenegru, Macedonia
etc.
Poemele de sorginte
niponă (Haiku, Senryu și
Gogyohka) semnate de
Ion Cuzuioc au fost
traduse în limbile
japoneză, engleză,
franceză, rusă,
muntenegreană și
macedoniană, fiind
publicate în diverse
antologii, culegeri și reviste de profil de peste
hotare. Ion Cuzuioc s-a învrednicit de peste
100 de premii și mențiuni la Concursurile
Săptămânale și Lunare de Haiku, Senryu și
Gogyohka organizate de către Romanian
Haiku, Lyrical flashes, Dincolo de retină,
Gogyohka România, Gogyohka SUA etc.
Recent, scriitorul nostru român
basarabean, Ion Cuzuioc, care a participat la
Concursurile Internaționale Literare
„Planetopia 2020” și „Literatopia 2020” din
Macedonia s-a învrednicit de premiile I la
secțiunea Aforisme și Haiku.

23
***
pădure în flăcări –
plânsul puiului de cuc
înecat în fum
***
lacul fără pește –
paznicul de serviciu
dus cu pluta
***
pe prispa casei –
un scaun și o cârjă
doar amintire
***
surpriza nopții –
soțul de la cazino
în frunza Evei
***
vreme toridă –
căruțașul dormind
la umbra cailor
***
de gardă la muzeu –
lângă stative motanul
torcând în voie
***
pe ultimul drum –
în urma sicriului
florile călcate
Anna Maria Stępień
Recepta
Nie ma na ziemi chyba człowieka,
Co drogą gładką ciągle idzie, lato czy zima.
Tak jest i było od prawieków…
Troski, obawy, z czymś się zżyma
Czy mały on, czy duży jest…
Życiowy czeka go codziennie test.
I nie ma na tej ziemi tego,
Który szczęśliwy ze wszystkiego,
Co los przynosi z sobą w darze.
Wzloty, upadki, przygód bez liku
– tych złych i dobrych…
A na dodatek dorzuci
czasem
Worek jak tęcza
wielobarwny
Pełen przepięknych o
szczęściu marzeń.
Gdy z tego sprawę sobie
zdasz,
Receptę wtem na swe
bolączki gotową masz:
Jak radzić sobie, nawet
gdy
Nie idzie po Twej myśli Ci,
Gdy nie po myśli Twojej jest,
To co dookoła dziś Ciebie dzieje się.
W górę więc serce, przed siebie pierś,
Rękawy zakasz, siedzisz czy stoisz,
Do pracy umysł zaprzęgnij i ręce swoje.
I nie myśl, żeś jest sam, choć pewnie…
We dwoje lepiej, gdy druga para rąk,
Gdy głowy dwie,
Do pracy nad jaśniejszym jutrem
Już dziś z zapałem wezmą się…
W marzeń magiczną moc swych wierz,
Bo przecież Ty sam najlepiej wiesz,
Co w duszy Twojej tańczy, co w niej gra!
Chyba, że wolisz, gdy to Ci podpowiadam ja…?

24
Muhammad Ishaq Abbasi
The Rape
Three days ago when the night spread it's fence.
The woman with her three children, was going from Lahore to Gujranwala by motorway,
after meeting her sister.
She belonged to a family that ate and drank.
Suddenly, her car ran out of petrol on the road near Gujarpura village.
It was one o'clock at night.
And the car stopped.
She was screaming and screaming for help.
Meanwhile, two beasts came and broke the glass of the car and started looting her.
The pen was trembling and the heart was coming to the mouth as I wrote the poem.
Heaven and earth were weeping at the cries of mothers and children.
The mother was holding her children in her arms along with her honor.
Sometimes she was calling to the East and sometimes to the West for help.
Everyone was enjoying their sleep.
The beasts dragged her and her children into a nearby forest.
The desolation of the forest was also weeping tears of blood.
The mother was beaten and raped in front of the children.
And left them there and fled.
Everyone needs to do their part to end this oppression.
Heaven is under mother's feet. And our society has tramped a mother underfoot.

25
Dušan Pejaković
The law of causality
Interpersonal correlation –
what a strenuous activity,
such a complicated dynamics.
It mainly manifests itself:
like this dual current of life’s force
running down the paths of our doings.
It’s much like the law of nature,
that proportional, inversed logic –
so called reciprocity of
action and reaction.
Aftermath of all that
rationalizing
should be the sum of
inputs
leading to a desirable
outputs.
The whole world as my
witness -
that modality of
computing and analyzing
in the real world - nowadays - is baseless.
A stampede of inequality and
injustice
A stampede mainly formed out of:
misconceptions, misconstructions and poor
judgments -
is bulldozing all over the entity of individual
being.
The world machinery is pushing, irresistibly,
a single amorphous template of conduct
and the richness of diversity of each
individuality -
it is washed away like dirt after heavy rain.
Everything tends to be constructed that way,
that all shades of a wide range of colors
are being repainted in one of the shades
of nonetheless then mechanical-worker gray.
The goal is to produce as many units of the
identical as possible,
to delete differences with one stroke of the
keyboard.
And what is the only thing left for us, as an
option,
being non-stop propagated every single day?
Adapt, learn to be like
others or simply
disappear.
Short biography:
Dušan Pejaković is a
student, volunteer, social
entrepreneur and author,
based in Podgorica,
Montenegro. A passionate
reader and nature lover.
Currently at the position of MA
candidate at the Faculty of Political Science, University
of Montenegro. Has been expressing himself through
written word from an early age. He writes and creates
on a multilingual basis (languages of the Balkan
peninsula area, English, Spanish, Italian) Published so
far in several books of poetry, culture magazines, as
well as via online platforms. In July 2020, he published
a book of English poetry “Unrest of lucidity” which can
be found on Amazon as well as other places Amazon
collaborates with. He also writes prose, primarily
embodied in the form of short stories, novellas and
essays. His second book of poetry, written in his native
language (Eng. translation: “The silhouette of an
unfulfilled dream) has been published in November
2020. He is currently working on a new project, which
is underway, and it is a collection of stories.

26
prose 25-30
Spisateljica Biserka
Maslačak na planeti
Pokosila sam travu, provukla ruke kroz
grm lavande, sjela na klupicu i podigla noge na
crni kamen prošaran bijelim, kvarcnim žilama.
Kroz napola zatvorene oči, zaklonjene
dugim trepavicama, opijena mirisima,
promatrala sam male oblačiće, ružičaste od
zalaska sunca. Baš kad sam pomislila kako bi
bilo divno da sjediš tu, kraj mene, ugledala sam
njega, moj mjesec,
veličanstven kao i uvijek,
ali opet, večeras poseban.
Tek sad sam otkrila
kamo nestaju svi oni
maslačci sa zelenih livada,
lebdjeli su oko mjeseca,
obasjani njegovim sjajem,
tvorili paučinastu
koprenu koja se omatala
oko njega. Pružila sam
ruke, visoko, visoko, želim
te dotaknuti.
Odjednom, mjesec se zamutio, zatitrao,
kao odsjaj u vodi. Osjetim dodir na obrazu i
rukom krenem očekujući tvoje prste. Ne
nalazim ih, samo kapljice na mom dlanu,
blješte kao dijamanti na mjesečevom sjaju. Još
jedna noć spušta se na pokošenu travu i
usamljen moj lik na klupi.
Oko mene, žamor života, u meni, samo
neizdrživa čežnja koja gori na ovoj planeti.
Zoran Radosavljević
Pompeja
Rukama krvavim od borbe sa njenim
demonima sakupljao sam ostatke pepela te
Pompeje u njoj..Vezuve moj..gasila te
prekrasna reka Sarno.. Bila je rodjena sa
vatrom u sebi. Čuvala je u dodirima i mislima,
i poklanjala malo po malo ljudima, sve dok joj
iskra u oćima nije nestala.Nestala je toplina i
dobrota koju je širila..Ljudi su je istrošili i
ostavili.. Da joj ližem krvave očnjake posle
životnih poraza, ona da me čuva od celog sveta
…Da vidamo rane jedno
drugom..klesanjem joj
đavoli prošlosti želili
oduzeti dobrotu..borio
sam se koliko sam mogao
da sačuvam tu njenu
anđeosku lepotu … Meni
su godinama krvava
stopala, a i dalje istim
putevima moja duša
korača …idem njoj u
susret da je čuvam dok
opet ne ojača…nemoj te
da pomislite da tražim izgovor samo da bi
lutao… Kad je Niče plakao, svet je ćutao…a ići
ću opet i opet iznova..čujem kako viću izađi iz
zabluda i uđi u stvarnost, umrećeš od lažnih
snova Ne znaju oni da sam takav po rodjenju…
pred putokazima spuštam glavu, volim da
idem po sopstvenom nahođenju ..kao i biljka
kad sama od sebe baci svoje sopstveno seme…
džaba ste štedeli sve te tišine, reči, dodire i
pesme kad se pravi ljudi pojave u pogrešno
vreme ..Jurim prema njoj danima i noćima..ne
bole me padovi ali bi me boleo pad u njenim
oćima..potrudiću se da joj život ne bude samo
od plača…ostaću sa njom dok ne ojača..

27
Šahdo Bošnjak
Iz moje neobjavljene zbirke priča:
“tešanjske koke i druge priče”
Banane
Da li je Ahmetu pomogla Butra i hodža
Grbeša ili mu je pomoglo nešto drugo da
progleda, tek on je ponovo uspostavio
harmoniju u braku, odlično se razumijevajući i
slažućisa svojom ženom Safom. Ama, hronična
nestašica novca ponovo je zaprijetila da bi
mogla ozbiljno ugroziti tu bračnu harmoniju i
sreću. Žena postala
nestrpljiva, potreba se
namnožilo, a para
niotkud, a ona samo
zvoca, baš kao ljuta
nakostriješena kvočka:
– Znaš li ti, bolan,
čovo, da našem Ramici
trebaju nove čizme, one
se poderale pa dijete
samo što ne hoda boso?!
Vidiš li ti, bolan ne bio, da
se kobila nema za šta vezati jer joj je posve
dotrajao jular, već sam ti govorila da u kući
nemamo ni gram soli! A tek kako nam kuća
izgleda iznutra a tako i spolja, ko ni u kog, pa
me stid naroda što je tak’a neokrečena, a ti
nećeš da kupiš kreča da je okrečimo.
I tako svakog dana, probi mužu glavu
neprestano zanovijetajući: te treba, Ahmo,
ovo, te treba, Ahmo, ono... Kad mu njeni
prijekori prekipe, a on pokuša da smiri tenzije,
snižavajući ton, nastojeći pritom da bude što
uvjerljiviji:
– Znam, ženo, znam. Sve ja to znam i
vidim, ali šta vrijedi kad nemamo ni prebijene
pare u kući! Pa neće niko da zovne ni na
dnevnicu, a ni da mu kakav poslićak uradim.
Svi se stvrdli ko ćerpič. Sve sami škrtac, i
begovi, i age, i gazde, i skriveni kulaci... Sve
sami Čifut i cicija, ko da će sve na onaj svijet
ponijeti!
A ovamo u sebi misli: “Ehej, ženice moja,
Safice moja slatka, ta, ko ne bi volio kupit’ i
čizme malom, i jular kobili, i so, i kreč, i grablje,
eh, njih si zaboravila, a eno ih, sve istruhle i
zupci poispadali, već li je ostao samo jedan što
liči na babin zub, a grablje na babinu vilicu? A
tek banane! Ih, što sam se uželio lijepih, žutih,
krušnih banana!” Ahmet je toliko volio banane
da kad ih se sjeti, duboko uzdahne od želje da
ih ima, iza zuba mu poteče
bistra voda, a na usta
pocure sve same sline,
dok zamišlja njihov
božanstveni okus. “Ženo,
ženice mila, sve je to
važno i potrebito, ali
banane, banane... Banane
su ti, bolan,
naaajpotrebitije. Eto, šta
bi insan u životu bez
banana, haj, šta bi? Ovaj
život bez njih ne bi vrijedio ni pet para. Ni pet
para!”
A žena nije mogla znati o čemu Ahmet
tako često sanjari već pomisli kako on sjedeći
u kući neće dočekati da mu neko dođe na noge
i zovne ga da mu šta uradi, pa pođe kroz selo
pitajući imućnije seljane treba li im radnik za
muške ili ženske poslove. I našlo se nekoliko
hanuma kojima je trebalo urediti ili okrečiti
kuću, oprati veš ili zasijati rasad u bašči.
Također, nekoliko imućnijih domaćina reče da
im je potreban neko ko bi im pocijepao drva za
ogrjev, zatim prevezao sijena iz polja za stočnu
ishranu te iskrčio živice po njivama. Sva
radosna Safa se vrati kući, ispriča sve Ahmetu

28
i oni se u taj čas dadoše na posao. Radeći tako
danima, zaradili su, Boga mi, finih parica,
taman toliko koliko im je bilo potrebito za
najnužnije stvari, i još malo da i pretekne u
kućni budžet za crne dane ili za: ne daj, Bože,
zlu ne trebalo! Usto su hanume, zadovoljne
čestito obavljenim poslom, još i darivale Safu:
koja sapunom điritom, koja čankom
kukuruznog brašna, koja s malo graha, a njoj,
bogme, zauhar, da se koji dan preživi,
očekujući neka bolja vremena, a koja, nažalost,
nikako da dođu.
– E, sad se, čovo, ne možeš izmotavati
kako nemamo novca da bi kupio to što nam je
najnužnije; nego, sutra je
petak, put pod noge pa
pravac u Tešanj, na pijacu.
Jesi l’ zapamtio šta sam ti
sve rekla da trebaš kupiti?
– Kako, bona, ne bih
zapamtio? Ta ponovila si
to makar sto puta! Ma, šta
sto, jesi, vala, i hiljadu
puta, i lud bi zapamtio
denali ne bih ja ‘vako
pametan. Ko Tito. Uh, šta
rekoh; nemoj, ženo, da neko za ovo sazna, ni za
živu glavu. Uh, ne dao Bog, pa da zaglavim u
prdekani. Jali na Golom otoku! Uh!...
– Eh, moj Ahmo, jest da si pametan, al’
malo si plaho prećerao. Da barem reče kao
Ranković, il’ kao Đilas, de li, de li... Al’ đe’š rijet’
kao naš voljeni Tito?! Jerbo ‘nak’e pameti
nejma na dunjaluku. ‘Nak’og čojka majka više
ne rađa!
– Jami ba, Safo, ne budali. I on prdi kao i
svi mi, samo što je 'nako... malo previše izvikan
i napuhan da ga se neprijatelji boje, a da narod
prema njemu osjeća strahopoštovanje, kao
prema kakvom božanstvu, eto sad, pa to ti je.
A ti mene prijavi, ako ti nije žao.
– Haj’ ba, Ahmo, ne benavi. Đe bih ja tebe
prijavila... Nego, nemoj sutra slučajno da bi
gledao one tamo tešanjske koke, one nacifrane
tešanjske frajle. Ehej, sve ću ja čuti, beli!
– E, gledat ću, dašta nego da ću gledat’. Pa
neću, valjda, hodati zavezanih očiju?! Il’ ćeš ti
ić’ sa mnom pa me vodati kao slijepca, da nam
se svijet smije.
– Smiješ ti gledati ‘nako, preda se, da ne
bi udario na drugog insana jal’ na hajvana, jal’
u banderu. Ali frajlice gledat’... E, to se ne igraj
živom glavom!
Smjehuljeći se u sebi, Ahmo pomisli: “Sva
sreća pa ti nećeš bit’ sa
mnom, jer voli Ahmo
napariti oči na kakvoj
mladoj i lijepoj curi jal’
snaši nego večerati, samo
ako li je večera bez
banana. Jer, banane,
banane... Ah, te čarobne
banane!“
Sajo je redovno
petkom posjećivao
tešanjsku pijacu, a Ahmo
samo po potrebi i,
uglavnom, ako bi imao novca. Zato on ode kod
Saje da se dogovore kako bi zajedno putovali,
naravno, pješice, jer je mnogo ugodnije u
društvu negoli sam. Sajo je, kao i obično, ponio
da proda malo mliječnih proizvoda: koji sir,
kajmaka, dvije-tri litre mlijeka..., dok je Ahmo
nosio korpu od pletenog pruća, napunjenu
kokošijim jajima. Sajo priča o proljetnim
radovima, osobito o sjetvi kukuruza, i već su
na ulazu u Jelah, kad ti njega Ahmo prekide
pitanjem:
– Eto, Sajo, ti si ‘vako pametan, što bi se
reklo, svjetski čojk i znaš svašta. Reci mi je l’
istina da su banane zdrave, da su pune njakvih
mintamina, tako kazuju dokturi, belćim?

29
– Dašta neg’ su zdrave, kao i svako voće.
Nego, otkud ti sad to, mislim, da me pitaš to, za
banane?!
– Ma, nako ja nešto mislim. Slučajno mi
naumpalo pa rekoh da pitam.
Kad su bili u Jevadžijama, prvom selu
nakon Jelaha, sustiže ih Meho Skrozo, kočijaš
iz Drinčića, s konjskom zapregom. Prevozio je
narod na pijacu, ali su zaprežna kola bila
poluprazna te on zaustavi konje i pozva:
– Bujrum, ljudi, u kola, da ne idete pješke.
Poznavajući dobro kočijaša, Ahmo i Sajo
povikaše skoro uglas:
– Fala ti, Mehaga,
nismo nešto pri parama!
– Ama, ljudi, je l’ vas
neko pitao za pare? Meni
je u Tešanj, s vama il’ bez
vas. A ne vozim ja kola već
konji.
Bilo je rano jutro,
lijepo, vedro, proljetno.
Početak aprila. Travica se
pogdjegdje zazelenjela,
ptičice se rascvrkutale i
raspjevale, radujući se valjda lijepom danu i
proljeću. Tad Sajo opet povede razgovor, ali
ovaj put o stočnoj ishrani i kako su sijena
skupa, a stoka, i napose telad, jako jeftina.
Ahmet uopće nije pratio šta mu rođak priča pa
će ti, onako iznebuha, provaliti:
– Je l’ ba, Sajo, je l’ de da su majmuni
onako zdravi, živahni i spretni što vole da jedu
banane?
Jaran ga pogleda sumnjičavo i odvali,
malo ljutito:
– A što, ti bi, bezbeli, volio da postaneš
majmun?! Pa jednom smo bili i nemoj, bogati,
da se ponovo vraćamo na isto!
– Ma, ne, ne... Ja to samo ‘nako...
– A šta ‘š ti kupovat’? – upita Sajo.
– Aha... pa kupit ću uglavnom dosta
banana i još tamo nekih sitnica.
Jaran ga ponovo pogleda začuđeno:
– Hm, sve se nema, sve se nema, a ‘vamo
se ima i za luksuz, moj dragi! A šta će tebi tolike
banane, ako nije tajna?
– Ah, znaš kako ti je, teke se para
zaradilo, prodat ću i jaja pa da obradujem
čeljad bananama. Valja kupiti Ramici, bezbeli i
Safi, a malo, vala, i ja da se primrsim, radi reda.
Sajo, ponovo ne shvatajući Ahmeta, samo
zaklima glavom i zašutje.
Silazili su niz Krndiju,
ulazeći u sami Tešanj, kad
Ahmet zamoli jarana:
– De, Sajo,
zahmetile, ako ja
zaboravim, kad dođemo u
Tešanj, napomeni me da
kupim banana, a ostalog
ću se lahko sjetiti.
– Hoću, hoću,
napomenut ću te... Pa zar
ne vidiš da si u Tešnju?! I kako ćeš zaboraviti
kupiti banana kad ni o čemu drugom i ne
pričaš od kako smo ono krenuli od kuće?
Pošto su na pijaci rasprodali šta su
prodati imali, dva jarana krenuše da pokupuju
što im treba pa da idu kući, opet pješke, jakako,
ne bi li im tako u džepu ostao koji dinar.
Šetajući gradom, naiđoše pored jedne
prodavnice u čijem izlogu Ahmo ugleda lijepe
žute banane, žute kao ćilibar. Sav sretan reče
rođaku:
– Stani, Boga ti, da svom Ramici kupim
banana.
I prije nego što je Sajo mogao bilo šta da

30
i prozbori, Ahmo se pomoli iz prodavnice
zalažući se slatkim bananama. A kad su došli
do sljedeće prodavnice s mješovitom robom,
Ahmo je već bio pojeo sve banane. No, ništa za
to jer je i ta prodavnica imala finih banana, da
Ahmet pored soli kupi i kilogram banana.
– Ovo za moju Safu – reče i tako krenuše
prema pijaci. A usput je mislio: “Uh, da zna
kako sam napario oči, gledajući tešanjske
gospojice. Evo ih ko findžani. Neće me, vala,
zaboliti dok sam živ.”
Ali do pijace je bilo podaleko i Ahmo ne
odolje bananama već ponovo stade jesti sve
jednu po jednu, misleći
kako će još samo ovu
pojesti i neće više te tako
dođe i do zadnje. Onda
pomisli kad je sve pojeo,
što bi i nju ostavljao. Na
kraju je nekako pojeo sve,
a da to Sajo nije ni
primijetio. I samo što su
stigli na pijacu, Ahmo
ugleda najljepše banane,
koje je ikad vidio iako je
vjerovatno da mu se tako
samo učinilo. Odmah kupi pregršt banana, i to
koje je sam probrao, pa stade halapljivo da
jede, baš kao da mu je danas prva. Na to Sajo
primijeti:
– A ti pojeo i Ramine i Safine banane, što
sad i te jedeš, što ne poneseš njima?!
– E, ono su bile njihove rede, a ovo je sad
moja reda, a ja svoju redu ne prepuštam
nikome.
Dok je tako jeo banane, sve je kore bacao
preda se. Jedući zadnju, primijeti kako su kod
jednog prodavca ostale posljednje grablje pa
se uplaši da ih ko ne kupi i da tako ostane bez
grabalja. Istog časa htjede da potrči, gledajući
samo u grablje, te ti tako stade na kore od
banana, noga mu se pokliznu, a on se ispruži
na kaldrmisanu podlogu koliki je dug. Cijela
pijaca se grohotom zatresla od smijeha, a njega
bilo stid ustati i svijetu pogledati u oči. Pa sve
da je i htio, nije mogao bez Sajine pomoći jer je
pao čelom na kamen i pritom zaradio čvorugu,
gotovo kolika je šaka. Uz Sajinu pomoć nekako
ustade, jaran mu maramicom obrisa krv, a
njemu se mantalo u glavi da je morao sjesti na
obližlju klupu, kako bi ponovo došao sebi. Za
sve to vrijeme prodavači i mušterije nisu mu
se prestajali smijati, a u ušima su mu
odzvanjale njihove riječi, koje je slušao dok je
bespomoćno ležao na kaldrmi: “Aferim,
ljudino!” “Ponovi, delijo!”
“Ustani, pa jope’!...” Čim se
malo oporavi, Ahmet
ustade pa praćen
podrugljivim pogledima i
smijehom kupi nesretne
grablje, Rami čizmice,
kobili jular i kreč za
osvježenje i uljepšavanje
kuće. A kad pogleda u
novčanik, a on prazan.
Onda zamoli Saju:
– Sajo, Boga ti, pozajmi mi jednu stoju.
Vratit ću ti čim prije.
– Pa eto, sve si pokupovao, i što će ti
stoja?!
– Hoću da ponesem Rami i Safi banana.
– A sebi, zar nećeš ponijeti i sebi?
– Hoću! – reče ljutito. – Sebi ću ponijeti
ovu čvorugu na čelenjki, koju sam i zaslužio.
Otad je Ahmet zamrzio banane, baš kao
birvaktile ptice, dok je bio mali dječak. Nikad
više banane nije htio ni okusiti. A ako bi ih
negdje ugledao, okretao bi glavu, gadeći ih se,
kao da je ugledao nečastivog, šejtana.

31
essay 31-35
Loreta Toader
În căutarea luminii
Am fugit, am fugit cu toată ființa mea
încercând să-ajung gândurile din urmă.
Viața mă izbea biciuindu-mi sufletul.
Respirul mi-era spintecat de loviturile atâtor
cuvinte durute și neînțelese.
Alergam… alergam fără să aud, fără să
văd; nu mai simțeam, nu mai știam dacă mi-
era cald sau frig, nici de mi-era zi sau de mi-era
noapte…picioarele nu mă mai ascultau iar
mâinile, mâinile încercau
să se agațe de acel ceva
încă nedefinit.
Doar ochii îmi
cercetau sufletul
întrebând: mai poți?!!!…
N-am știut să
răspund așa cum n-am
știut câtă durere și câte
lacrimi am strâns în gând.
Am obosit. M-am
oprit din alergat mergând
cu pași repezi spre niciunde. În mine ploaia își
revărsa boabele-i de jad rescriind povestea
unei noi renașteri… am adormit pe iarba udă;
gândurile mi-au poposit pe verdele crud al
primăverii insuflându-mi tinerețea pierdută
cândva… inima a început să bată încet, liniștit
– zbuciumul ei a rămas undeva în trecut- un
trecut greu înțeles, aproape inuman – acum
uitat.
Simt o căldură benefică- ploaia s-a oprit;
soarele îmi mângâie fața scăldată de lacrimi
iar curcubeul îmi pictează sufletul
regenerându-i sentimentele.
Am deschis ochii și m-am pierdut în
albastru – un albastru divin, imperial-
albastrul ochilor tăi, Doamne…
M-am înveșmântat în verdele renașterii
pe care mi l-ai oferit a doua oară.
Am început să alerg andante prin viață
percepând lumina în fiecare culoare a
existenței sale: rece, caldă, neutră, difuză pe
sufletul și gândurile mele ce țipau libertate…
pictură – Alexandru Darida
Bill Stokes
Drum
Life is the ultimate tapestry woven on a
loom as the shuttle moves
back and forth on the
warp leaving tiny bits of
thrum
And the shuttle is
the metronome of our life
as it beats out both
cadence and rhythm and
is by far all of creation’s
most most exquisite
drum.
Thread by thread
the history of your life is
recorded by your soul’s shuttle
And at the end of your mortal journey
and standing at the bar of justice your warp’s
documentation with either gain you eternal
glory or force you to into outer darkness with
a wailing scuttle.
Just as there are no to souls exactly the
same The drum beat of your life is the the beat
of your heart that only the love of Christ can
tame.
Both drums and hearts can have beats
both loud and soft as a baby’s cheek and when
your heart belongs to your eternal mate and
when their breath gently caresses your face
you truly can understand that heaven on earth

32
is the prize we all seek.
Life is the ultimate tapestry woven on
loom as the shuttle moves back and forth on
the warp leaving tiny bits of thrum and the
shuttle is the metronome of our life as it beats
out both cadence and rhythm and is by far all
of creation’s most most exquisite drum.
Santosh Kumar-Bhutan
Harmonythat never was
How keenly I feel to see, all are gone for
their family god, Never, even a lonely finger for
pointing or boasting, In
solidarity, they walk with
the bannerof lofty
mankind, No colors to see
and no races to protect
aside from harmony,
Within, with common
goals of peace to emerge
all at once.
Now, the brilliant
day draws near, I can see
the striking sinking star,
Simply over, the
nightingale and the skylark join together, In
prospect, the falconer cheers, hearing the
peace train whistle, The melody of the upper
waves, so joyful in tone, With hope, which has
never been with every lack of worry.
The cord of humanity, in the minds of
individuals, rested, All around thesquare,
recitingoneness being, No more conteni pt in
sight, no more selfishness in feeling, All
together, with divine ideas to paint the tomb,
Forever, to allow it to sparkle in harmony that
never was.
Ryszard Mścisz
Groza śnieżnej nocy
[Horror of the Snowy Night]
Śnieg za oknami przystrajał krajobraz
świąteczną bielą. Ozdobionym puchem
gałęziom drzew widocznie nie było tak lekko,
skoro kłaniały się ziemi pokornie i czołobitnie.
Ja również nie czułem misternej lekkości
ducha Święta Narodzin. Już tego nie czułem.
Wciskanie do oczu śnieżnego bałwana
węgielnych kamieni zdało
mi się torturą. A wesołe
dzieci zdawały się mieć
diabelskie ogniki w
oczach. Pomyśleć, że
jeszcze wczoraj
widziałbym to samo
zupełnie inaczej.
Wczoraj był taki
sam zimowy wieczór. Z
nostalgią zimy w
otulinach śniegu, lekkim
przymrozkiem, który nie odstrasza i nie więzi
w ogrzanych domach, ale pozwala wejść w
otwartą księgę nocy w towarzystwie
rozgwieżdżonego nieba. Gdy wyszedłem z
domu było tak spokojnie i cicho, na
opustoszałych ulicach tylko pojedyncze cienie
przemykały w świetle latarni. Oddaliłem się
od ostatnich domów z oświetlonymi oknami,
wszedłem w mroczną tajemnicę drzew
oswojonych – zdawałoby się – jasnością
śniegu. Wydawało mi się, że w braterskiej
ciszy natury mogę być chwilę sam na sam ze
sobą. To tak rzadki w życiu luksus, cudowny
paradoks życia: wśród natury bywamy sobą,
wnikamy w siebie – wśród ludzi prowadzimy

33
grę, zakładamy maskę jak w antycznym
teatrze. Zdawałoby się, że każdego stać na ten
luksus, chwile prawdy. A jednak łatwiej o
sukces, pozycję towarzyską, nawet materialny
dobrobyt niż o nie. Czy jesteśmy zbyt zajęci,
zaaferowani wypełnianiem schematu życia...?
A może boimy się owych odkryć samotności,
prawdy o sobie, której wobec natury nie
jesteśmy w stanie zakłamać...
Lekkie skrzypienie kroków, delikatny
trzask gałęzi wyrwał mnie z zadumy. A więc
nie jestem sam? No cóż, chwila samotności
skończyła się – może moja samotność zbratała
się z samotnością innego
człowieka i przestała nią
być. A może po prostu
dana mi była tylko ta
ulotna chwila w
zbiorowej formie życia...?
Nagle ujrzałem cień, który
ów hałas stworzył. Cień
nie był imponująco
wielki, ale zarazem
niepokojący nad wyraz.
Niepokojący, bo...
nieludzki. Zdawało mi się,
że nieforemna, olbrzymia głowa wyrastająca z
niewielkiego tułowia unieruchomiła mnie
zupełnie. Odczułem intuicyjnie jakąś
przewagę intelektu, pozaczasowej mądrości,
która obezwładnia, odbiera rację bytu,
przytłacza... To coś ma wiele odnóg, kończyn,
a może macek, które gotowe mnie opleść i
zgnieść w każdej chwili. Usłyszałem głos,
raczej dźwięk, który tajemnicza istota wydała.
Zdawał się rozbrzmiewać od wewnątrz,
wydobywać z mojej głowy. Być może nie
istniała żadna zewnętrzna postać głosu. Ale
nie był na tyle wyraźny, bym był w stanie go
zrozumieć. A raczej nie mógł się od razu
przebić przez jakąś warstwę psychiki, która go
blokowała. Przeczucie o istnieniu odpowiedzi,
odzewu na hasło, które ów głos z sobą niesie,
towarzyszyło mi bezustannie. Byłem o krok od
jasności. Bądź o krok za nią. To jakiś język, kod,
który prawie znałem, mogłem odkryć. Nie
wiedziałem, czy był mi znany w jakimś
odległym kiedyś, czy może to pewien wariant
języka, który znam od zawsze...
To zaczęło iść w moim kierunku.
Tajemnica językowego szyfru przegrała z
gwałtownym lękiem. Te nieskoordynowane
ruchy, kroki zdały mi się groźne, skierowane
przeciwko mnie – nie do
mnie. Próbowałem się
ruszyć. Raz, drugi... Ani
siła mięśni, ani siła woli
nie była mi posłuszna.
Strach rósł wraz z
malejącą odległością
między mną a tym... Było
coraz groźniejsze, coraz
bardziej odrażające – w
naszych ziemskich
kategoriach. Coraz
bardziej odmienne od
wszystkiego, co dotąd widziałem... mimo że
nie w pełni widoczne. Wreszcie udało się,
mogłem zrobić ruch, parę kroków... mogłem
biec. Starałem się wykorzystać całą moją
szybkość; całą szybkość mięśni i strachu...
Dobiegłem do pierwszej zaspy śniegu i
przesadziłem ją błyskawicznie. Coś
podpowiadało mi, że nie mogę biec wprost
przed siebie, zwykłą drogą. Że muszę kluczyć,
uskakiwać, byle przybliżać się do znajomych
miejsc, do domu. Nie mogłem się oglądać za
siebie. Nie potrafiłem. Czułem jednak to na
pewno. To jest blisko, jest szybkie, bardzo
szybkie. Nie chciałem wiedzieć jak wygląda,

34
choć światła wyłaniających się latarni
pozwoliłyby poznać część tajemnicy. Nie
chciałem wzrokiem sprawdzić jak jest szybkie,
jak się porusza. Wiedziałem, czułem, że koszt
zetknięcia się z tajemnicą może być zbyt
wysoki. Byłem już bardzo blisko, ale i ono
powoli choć nieznacznie przybliżało się.
Chyba czułem ten poryw szybkości,
wzlatujący pod jego krokami śniegowy puch.
Jeszcze tylko kilkadziesiąt kroków,
kilkanaście, kilka... Kiedy czułem zniewalający
oddech owej istoty na plecach, dopadłem
bramy, potem drzwi od domu. Zamknąłem
drzwi za sobą, mocno
przytrzymałem i na
chwilę przywarłem do
nich. Rozejrzałem się z
niepokojem po oknach,
ciemnych ścianach
mieszkania.
Dopiero po
godzinie zaświeciłem
światło, usiadłem w
fotelu. Cisza była zbyt
niepokojąca, pustka
zdawała się krzyczeć we
mnie. Włączyłem telewizor. Chyba program
już się skończył, ale pozostał szum, tak
potrzebny mi w tym momencie szum... Po
chwili jednak zdało mi się, że słyszę głos. Tak,
spoza niego wyraźnie dobiegał głos... Na tyle
wyraźnie... Nie, musiałem się przesłyszeć... A
jednak ciągle słyszę to samo. Ten głos.
Podobny do tamtego, a przecież zrozumiały,
ludzki.
- Mogłem cię dogonić. Gdybym chciał,
dogoniłbym cię...! Ty wiesz o tym dobrze!
confabulation 36-46
Lenuș Lungu
Un grande poeta, critico
letterario, umanista di fama
mondiale
Jawaz Jaffri è un poeta in cui scolpisce le
sue creazioni in una montagna di parole e
veste la bellezza di una materia sensibile da
cui emette i suoi sentimenti. L'idea del poeta
ne illustra l'intensità e dà una forte risonanza
dove dipinge le parole in un mare di colori
presentando il quadro poetico. Attraverso le
sue opere ci dà molta
sensibilità, amore,
sensazione di relax e pace.
In un mondo di poesia
letteraria in cui la
scrittura si muove
vertiginosamente verso i
sentimenti, Jawaz rimane
autentico, un poeta che
sceglie di esprimere stati
attraverso le parole, ma le
emozioni continuano a
fiorire, idee per far
nascere idee. Leggendo i
testi di Jawaz, sono riusciti a farmi conoscere
una vibrazione di metafore ed epiteti che
cercano di trasmettere il messaggio delle
parole. Riesce a catturare in modo sfumato
l'universo invisibile degli stati d'animo. Offri ai
lettori versi che fanno vibrare le corde delle
anime attraverso la penna ardente. Offre ai
lettori un universo lirico pieno di simboli in
uno stile unico, restituendo maestria alle
persone. Non smette mai di stupire i lettori,
formando una simbiosi e un'armonia assoluta.
Il classico si fonde con successo con le
caratteristiche della poesia moderna. Il lettore
viene così catturato nella rete di Jawaz che si
trasforma da autore nell'io di chi legge,
filtrando le sue idee, i suoi punti di vista,

35
prestando i suoi occhi a vedere il mondo come
lo vede l'autore. Resta da leggere la poesia e
ritrovarsi lì, tra i versi della poesia. La forma
dell'anima nel suo fulgido splendore,
sensazioni varie che accrescono il mistero
della poesia e la tensione del vivere.
L'amore per la pace è il sentimento
edificante che si manifesta nel cuore di ogni
uomo. Tutto è semplice e complesso, allo
stesso tempo naturale e deciso, sembra fluire
con naturalezza, ma l'occhio sensibile e la fine
intuizione del poeta coglie la poesia
essenziale, come in uno stop-frame che cattura
uno stato d'animo, un momento unico che
l'amore della pace, della luce lo chiama sempre
per regalare il suo piccolo
recital di bellezza a chi
vuole e può sentire questo
splendore. Leggendo i
testi del poeta, mi sono
ricordato dell'aforisma di
Tudor Arghezi: Il vero
libro di un poeta penso sia
uno, purché unico, perché
la definizione di un poeta
che pubblica un buon
libro è in due parole:
talento ed energia. La
poesia è percepita esattamente come viene
mostrata, con tutta la trasparenza di un'anima.
È consapevole e comprende il rapporto
profondo e sacro che gli scrittori sviluppano
con la poesia, ma non nega il suo diritto di
sperare che la bellezza debba essere
evidenziata.
Il Dr. AZADAR HUSSAIN JAWAz (Pseudonimo Dr.
Jawaz Jaffri) è nato a Toba Tek Singh (Punjab, Pakistan)
l'8 aprile 1964. Ha conseguito il dottorato. in letteratura
urdu presso l'Università del Punjab, Lahore, nel 2006.
Attualmente è professore presso Govt. Lahore College
of Science, era presidente del dipartimento di urdu al
Govt. MAO College, Lahore. Ha un profondo interesse
per la scrittura creativa, la critica, la poesia, la scrittura
drammatica, la scrittura dicolonne, lo studio comparato
delle religioni, le prospettive storiche e culturali della
società, il rapporto tra scienza e letteratura, musica
classica e altre arti visive. Ha una vasta collezione di
librerie di musica classica. Una considerevole biblioteca
di libri è disponibile nel suo studio, il che è evidente nel
suo gusto letterario. Molte delle sue poesie sono state
tradotte dall'International Center for Poetry
Translation and Research, Cina. Scrive contro la guerra,
il suo libro "Mout Ka Haath Kalaie Per Hey" è stato
tradotto come "Il polso negli artigli della morte" da
Muhammad Shanazar, poeta e traduttore pakistano. Le
poesie di questo libro sono anche tradotte in molte altre
principali lingue del mondo e anche nelle lingue locali
(Punjabi, Pashto, Sindhi e Hindko). Ha contribuito con
altri libri di poesia contro la guerra in urdu intitolati
"Main Laam di Janj da Lahda han", che è stato tradotto
da Harpreet Kaur e pubblicato in India da Nawi Dunia
Publishers, Punjab, India. Ha scritto articoli su celebrità
letterarie internazionali come
Pablo Neruda, Toni Morrison,
T.S Eliot, Seamus Heaney, Jan-
Paul Sartre, Charles
Baudelaire, Tolstoy, Franz
Kafka, Kinza Br O, Gabriela
Mistral, Salima Langrof, Harry
Sinclair e Lu Xun., Il grande
scrittore della Cina classica è
stato pubblicato sul quotidiano
Jang e Nawa-i-Waqt. Quasi 20
libri sono al suo attivo come
scrittore, gli è stato conferito il
prestigioso Premio
Presidenziale del Pakistan
(The National Human Rights
Award, 2016). Inoltre, il Presidential Award (National
Human Rights Award, 2016) ha ricevuto il premio
Special Shield for Peace dal Ministero dei diritti umani
2017 (Pakistan), Quid-e-Azam Gold Medal (2015),
Asian Cultural Association Award (2017) , Harf
Academy Awards (Quetta) e molti altri premi da tutti i
simposi inter-collegiali in Pakistan e concorsi di oratori
durante il periodo accademico. È membro della
Pakistan Writers Guild, Pakistan, Pakistan Academy of
Letters, Islamabad, Halqa-e-Arbab-e-Zauq, Pakistan,
Drama Scrutiny Committee, Punjab Arts Council,
Lahore e Adabi Baithak, Lahore Arts Council, Lahore.
Era anche il presidente della Sherani Society, Govt.
College, Sheikhupura, President of the Urdu Society,
Oriental College, Lahore, Honorary Editor Husn-e-Byan
Monthly Quarterly Magazine, Karachi and Honorary
Editor Monthly Magazine G News, Great Gran Bretagna.
Le sue opere principali consistono in poesia, Dehleez pe
Aankhain, Muthi Mein Tera Wada Khawab, Maut ka

36
Hath Kalai par Hai, Mohabat khasara naheen, Umr-e-
Rawan sey parey, Wrist in the Clutches of Death, Mera
Dil Fakhta da Ahlna ay, Main Laam di Janj da Lardha han,
Vasal say Khali Din, Mutbadil Dunia ka Khawb,
Chiraghon se BhariGalliyan, AsaanSufny Sahvey rakhey
e Ik Hijr Jo Ham Ko Lahaq Hai (Lettere) che sono
ampiamente lette dagli amanti della poesia. I suoi
documenti di ricerca includono Urdu Adab Europe Aur
America Mein, Iqbal Sajid Bataur Ghazal Go, Urdu Adab
Europe Aur America Mein, Urdu ki Qadeem Bastian,
Khaak se Uthny wala Fun, Urdu afsaane ka Maghribi
Dareecha, Urdu Ghazal ka Maghrabi Daricha,
Tassawarat, ( Tehqiqi gold Tanqidi Mazamean), Asasa
(Compilato da) Il primo libro poetico del famoso poeta
Iqbal Sajid, Kulyat-e-Iqbal Sajid, Iqbal Sajid: Shakhsiat
gold Fan e Kuliyat-e-Ustad Daman. Hs articoli Bartanvi
Danese Gahon Meinn Urdu Tadrees Ki Riwayat, Khak
say Uthnay Wala Fann, Europe
Aur America Mein Urdu Zaban
ka Mustaqbil, Urdu Zaban kay
Europi Shoara, Mashriq
Shanasi ki Rawait aur German
Mustashreqeen, Arab Dunya ka
Pehla Jang Mukhalifare Shayer
aur Takhliqi Zaaviey, Classiki
Mausiqi: Dhurpad Say Khayal
tak, Lahore ki Adabi Rawait
Mein Qahwa Khanon ka
Kirdar`` Classiki Mausiqi mein
Gharaney ka Tasawar, Classiki
Mausiqi kay Pakistani
Gharaney, Bar-e-Sagheitdu
Khanon ka Kirdar`` Classiki
Mausiqi mein Gharaney ka Tasawar, Classiki Mausiqi
kay Pakistani Gharaney, Bar-e-Sagheitdu Janibal Mein
Syah Sulagta Sigret, Information Technology aur Kitab
ka Mustaqbil, Maghrabi Tarz-e-Ahsas aur Is Kay
Tashkili Anasir, Europe Aur America Kay Urdu Nazm
Nigar, Kainati Shaur ky, Javed Shaheen Aik Ta'aruf,
Shaeri, Science aur Falsafa, Tarikeen- e-Watan ki Nai
Nasl aur Urdu ka Mustaqbil, Tarkeen-e-Watan ki Shaeri
par Tanhai aur Begangi Kay Asraat, Tarkeen-e-Watan ki
Shaeri aur Maghrabi Tarz-e-Ehsaas, Mout k Ghaat
Utarty Mizamir, Nars lon se aati Awazen, Saazon ka
Jahan, Taar k Saazon ka Bawa Adam, Urdu Afsaane ma
Kahani ki wapsi e Europe aur America k Urdu Nazam
Nigaar sono stati pubblicati in diverse riviste di ricerca
nazionali e internazionali. È l'autore delle serie
drammatiche Dastak Na Do, Adh Khula Darwaza,
Suragh, Teesri Aankh, Faisla, Shart e Painda. Ha anche
ospitato programmi televisivi come Marsia Gold Karbla,
Naat Go, Bahattar Aik Taaruf.
Jawaz Jaffri
Dal dottor
Il mio cuore è il nido di colomba
Il vento,
Venendo dal campo di battaglia,
Si riversa nelle mie orecchie,
Il nitrito dei cavalli.
Le tombe collettive,
Stanno per invadere le mie città;
E i venditori di bare,
Guarda i nostri corpi giovani e freschi
Con occhi avidi.
Il ragno della morte è
impegnato,
Nel tessere la ragnatela
della mia vittima.
Oh! Becchini,
Elimina la fame diffusa
Dai tuoi cortili,
Perché c'è trambusto
Nel cimitero.
Venire!
Protestiamo sulle strade
Contro la guerra;
I miei lettori sii mio testimone,
Non ho macchiato la mia penna
Con gli inni delle guerre,
La mia identità,
Sono le canzoni di pace
Le mie canzoni stanno scavando le radici delle
guerre,
Perché il mio cuore è il nido di colomba.
Una breve biografia letteraria

37
Review
"The night will pass without
miracles" by Daniele Vaienti
The night will pass without miracles by
Daniele Vaienti (Edizioni del Faro 2019 -
Series "Sonar. Words and voices" directed by
Paolo Agrati) is the debut book of the poet and
performer active in the circuit of slam and
acting poetry, dictated by tenacity free and
eager, rhythmic descriptive in a sound trend
that takes root in the sharp and dramatic
measure of humanity celebrated as "a group of
street children talking
about the end of the
world" (Jack Kerouac).
The verses seek the
existence of familiarity
and reanalyze the private,
everyday and simple
expressions common to
emotional confessions
that reveal the comforting
refuge of any ideological
and practical, tangible
and autobiographical experience. The
diffusion of poetry is the existential magnetic
recording engraved on material resistant to
the wear and tear of time.
The distortion of concrete and carnal
visions (a photo, cigarettes, autumn) allows us
to imagine a dream and real license, in which
life is the communicative passage of what is
written with passion and for our own
happiness. Daniele Vaienti's hypnotic and
confidential writing is a benevolence of
intoxication, in mastering an experience in
which the close and incisive technique and
joke praises a sentimental autonomy that
torments the unpredictability and
contradictions of affections, the obstacles of
despair in their allusive depth.
The intensity written beyond the lines
follows the detachment from conventional
poetics and feeds on literary improvisation by
involving the emotional symbols of the
theatrical magic vortex, accompanying, in each
comment, the poet's emotional resources.
The poet exists in the present instant,
releasing the ambush of nostalgia and memory
in the free vibrations of feelings.
The texts capture the inviolability of
love, against the inevitable defeat of the world
and the laceration of its constraints and urge
the need for a new
conception of happiness,
of salvation towards the
call to authentic life and
the complicity of the
moment.
The discovery of the
self, of the thought
absolved by prejudices, of
human values, of the
collective consciousness
is the goal of a complete
poetic affinity with the
individual journey towards a task towards
hope.
The artistic need arises from a desire for
freedom of expression, vital dynamism, and
through the investigation in the sense of good,
it includes the universality of the content and
the intimate research of the whole.
Here are some poems from The Night Will
Pass Without Miracles...

38
Nothing else
It's about learning
to exist
without pretending
that is.
It happens, be
careful
do not fall.
That silence
I smile blankly
counting trains
lost and lost for
to be able to forget
absent voice that
he raised the volume of
silence by a notch
The autumn
What should I do
with this
wet autumn,
which is scary
all wrong
as my score
in the fall of this year,
who took the smile out of town on
which we embraced out of necessity,
because it's cold outside
and you can't smoke inside
There it is
this fall
what to do with it
Sherzod Artikov
Sherzod Artikov was born in 1985 in
Marghilan city of Uzbekistan. He graduated from
Ferghana Polytechnic Institute in 2005. His works
are more often published in the domestic press of
the Republic. He mainly writes stories and essays.
His first book, The Autumn’s Symphony, was
released in 2020. He is one of the winners of the
national literary contest “My Pearl Country” in the
category of prose. His works appeared in such
Russian and Ukraine network magazines as
"Camerton", "Topos", "Autograph". In addition, his
stories were published in the literary magazines
and websites of Kazakhstan,
USA, Serbia, Montenegro,
Turkey, Bangladesh,
Pakistan, Egypt, Slovenia,
Germany, Greece, China,
Peru, Saudi Arabia, Mexico,
Argentine, Spain, Italy,
Bolivia, Costa Rica, Romania
and India.
* * *
Sherzod Artikov
urodził się w 1985 roku w
mieście Margilan w
Uzbekistanie. W 2005 roku
ukończył Instytut Politechniczny w Ferganie.
Cieszy się rosnącą popularnością w swojej
ojczyźnie. Pisze głównie opowiadania i eseje. Jego
pierwsza książka Symfonia jesieni ukazała się w
2020 roku. Jest jednym z laureatów
ogólnokrajowego konkursu literackiego „Mój
perłowy kraj” w kategorii proza. Jego teksty
ukazały się w rosyjskich i ukraińskich
czasopismach internetowych, takich jak
"Camerton", "Topos", "Autograf". Ponadto jego
opowiadania opublikowano w czasopismach
literackich i na stronach internetowych
Kazachstanu, USA, Serbii, Czarnogóry, Turcji,
Bangladeszu, Pakistanu, Egiptu, Słowenii, Niemiec,
Grecji, Chin, Peru, Arabii Saudyjskiej, Meksyku,
Argentyny, Hiszpanii, Włoch , Boliwii, Kostaryki,
Rumunii a także Indii.

39
Lenuș Lungu
Literary review
Bhagirath Choudhary is a writer and a
valuable humanism, a soul with an inner and
outer activity. The magic of words vibrates in
sounds. With the lucidity of a vision, any
emphasis is focused exclusively on the
accuracy of absolute accuracy. Style is a
powerful dream with a poetic intonation,
unity of thought and vision. The psychology of
lyric poetry is obvious, this being an engine of
inspiration and the
existence of the poetic
hero. Poetry has a great
value and a great
appreciation from
readers and literary
critics. The poem "My
Earth Sojourn" is modern
and expresses the artist's
creative effort for a
spiritual product on the
inner states of the poetic
year, tormented by inner turmoil and turmoil.
The verses are the product of a revelation, of
divine grace:
"Evolution has given me /
A divine body ". The poem suggests
beauty, purity, light. Representative for
artistic language innovation. An artistic
modality encountered in European lyric
poetry, it offers a shocking and fascinating
expressiveness through its aesthetic effects.
Poetry is structured by unequal lyrical
sequences, artistic creed and divine grace. It
suggests the desire to express in verse the
thirst for communication and the
transmission of a message to the world. To
convey the message of divine grace. List of
fabulous items: "The wave of the false self",
"orgasm of wisdom", creates an image of great
suggestive force. The modernism of poetry is
argued by the compositional structure, the
poem is constituted in lyrical sequences, in
which the poet directly expresses his
conception of the act of creation, emphasizing
the light of the artist's condition in the world.
The lyricism in this poem confirms the
presence of the lyrical self through the lexico-
grammatical marks represented by the verbs:
"I came," "I explored." A
parable that highlights
God's grace. The
expressiveness of poetry
is realized at the
morphosyntactic level.
The words in the present
gnomy perpetuate the
structural passion for
writing, the creative
commotion and the desire
to communicate the
poetic self with the world, ideas that confer the
pragmatic character of poetry. The language is
characterized by the use of shocking words
with fascinating expressiveness, words "my
pound of flesh", "holy vicars" whose meaning
acquires new values. The stylistic registers
combine, in the modern way, the popular
language with archaic flavor with the religious
one, from this combination thus succeeding
the originality "apostle", "divine value",
"mental evolution", "the sedative of the ego".
Modern prosody is supported by lyrics with
metrics and rhythm. A literary work that is the
fruit of divine grace and toil.

40
Bhagirath Choudhary
My Earth Sojourn
I came
Upon earth
To explore
My divine worth
To learn
My lesson
With passion
And to earn
My mental evolution
Every night
Before I retire
I take stock
Of every bump
And every stroke
Every valley
And every hillock
Every start
And every stop
I flasely verify
I justify
I deny
My every falsity
And every lie
I talk like
Saintly Vicars
But I stage wars
Without mercy or grace
For getting
My pound of flesh
With sadistic pride
Every day I write
My false narrative
Keeping firmly
Under ego's sedative
Of greed
And material race
I hide behind
Veil of false self
But not to face
My truth
And my divine self
Evolution made me
God's Image
Like a true Sage
Without any schism
I am made like
A wisdom organism
Evolution gave me
A body divine
For letting
Love and light shine
Without tools of offence
Or defence
I came
Like an apostle
Of nonviolence

Taifas Literary Magazine No. 7, January, 2021

Taifas Literary Magazine No. 7, January, 2021

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Taifas Literary Magazine No. 7, January, 2021